Dying of the Light
by Buzz Killington
Summary: AU from Revelations. An alternate ending and possible continuation for the episode. Better summary inside but didn't want to post spoilers here for those who haven't watched the ep. Twoshot? Maybe more...Please review!
1. That Good Night

Disclaimer: Sadly I don't own these characters. I'm only borrowing them and will return them mostly intact.

A/N: This is my first attempt at a Criminal Minds fic. I haven't entirely decided if it's a one-shot or if it is the beginning of a long fic, so I hope that some of you will review and let me know what you think and whether I should continue with a longer story.

Summary: "I ought to bury you alive in there; give you time to think about what you done." What happens when that's exactly what Tobias does? A/U from Revelations.

_Dylan Thomas once wrote, "Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light."_

Though I know it is highly improbable, I swear that I can not only hear but actually _feel_ the dirt raining down upon my coffin.

A solitary tear trickles down my cheek and I suspect there would be many more to follow were my body not so depleted. Between the sweat and the tears I have expelled far more liquid than what Tobias has allowed me to consume and I suspect that the drugs in my system have amplified the problem. I try to swallow, but my mouth and throat are simply too dry. I try not to worry about the effects severe dehydration has on a body. It doesn't matter, really, since I will more than likely not live long enough to feel my organs begin to shut down.

By my estimation, my coffin is 6.5 feet by 2.25 feet by 1.5 feet, leaving very little space for anything other than my own body. The casket is made of cedar, which is a highly porous wood, and is of quite shoddy craftsmanship. I can see a few tiny spots where moonlight is peeking through and know that as long as I can see that light, my air supply is being replenished. Unfortunately, if my calculations are correct--and despite my somewhat addled state I am fairly certain that they are--there will soon be approximately 84 cubic feet of dirt covering my tiny prison. As more dirt is tossed into the grave, it will pack down the dirt beneath it, making it far less permeable and cutting off my oxygen supply. Once that happens, I will likely have only about twenty minutes before I begin to suffocate.

"Tobias?" I manage to croak, licking my overly dry lips nervously. Unless the team caught the subtle clues I tried to feed them and beat the odds to find me in time, my best chance for survival is to appeal to the youngest of my captor's identities. He genuinely seems to want to help me, misguided as he may be. Though he may be too frightened to let me out of the box, at least he is likely to stop burying me, buying me a little more time. Regrettably, it is not Tobias who currently holds the shovel. I lick my lips and try again. "Tobias can you hear me?" My only answer is the sound of the shovel collecting another load of dirt.

I can feel my heart rate speeding up and close my eyes, concentrating on not letting myself panic. When one panics, one breathes faster and consumes oxygen at a much higher rate than when breathing normal. Therefore, I must maintain calm. If possible, I should try to sleep as that will consume the oxygen at the slowest rate. Still I fear that if I do fall asleep, I will never wake up.

I slowly count to ten before I open my eyes. I am disconcerted to notice that my coffin has become completely dark. I hear the thump as another shovelful of earth is heaped upon my casket. The soil is starting to pack and the endgame is in play.

"Tobias, please help me," I plead, my voice hoarse and possibly not loud enough for him to hear. Regardless, he does not answer.

He wants me to think about my sin, about my failure as a son, but I don't need the time to think about it. I understand now. I deserve this. I did not honor my mother. Just as I betrayed my mother and left her to suffer alone in a sanitarium, I am being left. I wrote to her every day to relieve my guilt, but in the end it took her being in danger for me to put aside my…my shame before I could bring myself to face her. I love my mother, but I hid her from my peers out of sheer cowardice. It is not so much that I did not want them to know that she is ill except that schizophrenia is genetically passed and…I want them to like me. I have never fit in before, and I did not want anything to ruin that. So that is my sin.

I just want to live lone enough to atone for it.

"Raphael," I make one last attempt to connect with the man sealing my fate. "O Lord, thou hast pleaded the causes of my soul; thou hast redeemed my life," I quote knowing that it is likely futile to convince him of my salvation, but it is my only hope.

And it is an empty one, I realize as soon all noise outside my prison ceases.

The only sound I can hear is the wild beating of my heart.

I shiver and regret having shed my sweater and dress shirt while digging even though I know that the chill I feel is not actually an indication of the actual temperature.

I feel suddenly dizzy, though I know it is far too soon for me to be feeling the effects of asphyxiation. Perhaps I am more dehydrated than I calculated. Tobias let me have that last drink of water, but I no doubt eliminated more than that amount of liquid as I was forced to dig my own grave.

Still, I suspect that the dizziness is a manifestation of my fear.

I can not panic. I close my eyes and focus on keeping my breathing slow and steady.+

The team will find me. Hotch will not have forgotten the conversation we had about narcissists, and he'll know I am trying to give them a clue. It won't take long for him to look up the passage and deduce that I am in a cemetery.

But will they find me in time? Will they have understood my hint about poachers?

And what if they weren't watching when the camera was turned back on? Garcia might have been away from her desk, or might have been working on a database search or something. Or even if she watched it, what are the odds that Hotch was actually there watching? It's not like they all would be sitting around just watching and waiting for Tobias to turn the camera on again. I have to believe, though, that Garcia saw it.

I have to have faith.

Garcia would warn Hotch right away. I sentenced him to die. Would she understand that I was only trying to send him a message? Would she spare him knowing that I condemned him as a narcissist and only tell him that he is in danger? Her well-meaning obfuscation might well sign my death warrant.

I can't breathe.

I try to call out to Tobias, but I can't even form the words. I lick my lips, but there is absolutely no moisture to be found. The best I can do is make a strangled whimper that sounds like a wounded animal's death cry.

I reach hesitantly to knock on the cedar lid. I know it is not a logical gesture, that even in the unlikely event that Tobias can hear my knock he will ignore it. But I knock. And knock again, pounding harder. I gasp for air, and throw more of my body into it. Maybe I can break my way out. Except that I know I can't. Even if I were much stronger like Morgan or Hotch I wouldn't be able to. The laws of physics are working against me, and it is illogical to keep exerting myself. I'm only using up precious oxygen. I have to stop and relax.

But I can't. I have to get out of the box. I'm going to die. I can't breathe!

My pounding turns to clawing. I know I should stop. Even if I manage to break open the lid, it will only bring the dirt crashing down upon me, crushing me immediately at best or suffocating me slowly at worst. I won't be able to move. Still, knowing that does not stop my need to fight. I will not go gently.

I scream a pitiful yawp as I feel the fingernails and skin on my fingers tearing as they fumble against the unyielding wood. I ignore the warm trickle of blood as it dribbles down my wrists and forearms and continue my futile task until finally my arms grow too heavy, and I begin to feel lightheaded. Is it the suffocation or is it the dehydration that is causing it?

If it's dehydration, I finally have a means to quench it. I lower my bloody fingers to my mouth and wet my lips, my tongue, ignoring the coppery taste. I feel sick but ignore it as I swallow, relieving my parched throat. It doesn't even begin to quell my thirst, nor do I feel any less dizzy.

I wish I had a way to say goodbye. But where would I even start? I want to thank the team for including me. Morgan, Garcia, thank you for teasing me even when I never get the jokes. JJ, thank you for calling me Spence when no one else ever does. Hotch, I'm so sorry I picked you to die, I didn't mean it, you're like the big brother I always wanted. And Gideon, you've been more of a father to me than my own ever was. Thank you for believing in me. I've been an outsider all my life but through them I finally understand what it is to have a real family.

My heart sinks as soon as I complete that thought. It is exactly why I deserve this fate.

Mother, I am sorry I did not honor you as I should.

My breath is becoming shallow. It can't have been twenty minutes, but then my calculations were based on estimates. I lie completely still, hoping that I can make the air last just a few minutes longer.

I can feel my body beginning to tingle.

Did you know that the urge to breathe is caused by rising carbon dioxide levels in the blood rather than diminishing oxygen levels? If there isn't enough carbon dioxide, though, a person can become hypoxic without even knowing it. They can just slip easily into unconsciousness and never wake.

I begin to feel absurdly euphoric and smile as I swear I hear angels calling my name.

Calling me home.

This is it.

Checkmate.

As death takes me I feel a sudden rush of air cooling my body. I feel an angel gathering my body into its arms and lifting me from my grave, carrying me to salvation. I want to open my eyes to greet him, but my lids are yet too heavy.

"Spence," a distant voice calls to me and I feel…safe and loved.

I feel hands stroking my hair, then caressing my cheek. And then I feel soft lips press down upon my own. The angel begins blowing air into my oxygen starved body. And I feel drops of rain hit my cheek.

Not rain but tears, I realize as the angel pleads, "Breathe…"

And so I do. Gasping frantic breaths that turn into coughs that wrack my entire body. "That's it…breathe," the voice encourages and I feel a hand stroking my hair again until I settle into calm steady breaths.

I open my eyes and realize that for the second time in one day I have been resurrected. I smile with relief and whisper, "I knew you'd understand…"

And Aaron Hotchner smiles back at me, mindless of the tears that adorn his normally stoic face.


	2. Rage, Rage

Acknowledgments: I don't own any of the characters. I promise I'll return them in one piece.well maybe two. Forgive me?

Rage, Rage (Morgan POV)

I don't care how sick the man is; when I get my hands on Tobias Hankel, I'm going to see to it that he spends the rest of his life eating through a straw. That's assuming, of course, that he lives long enough to eat. What I wouldn't give to have a nice clean kill on this one. While I firmly believe in bringing perps in alive to face justice, by messing with my boy, Reid, Hankel has made it personal and I want his head.

My jaw clenches and unclenches as I stare at the road straight ahead. "I hope he resists arrest," I hear myself admitting to the others before I think ahead enough to edit myself. I know they're probably all thinking the same thing, but by saying it I've given Hotch a very valid reason to pull me from the case. Truth be told, I'm not sure that I'll be able to stop myself from taking the shot if the opportunity arises.

"Did you know that is precisely why surgeons aren't allowed to operate on their own families? Their personal involvement makes them more prone to making judgments in error or taking chances they wouldn't normally take," I can actually hear Reid's voice in my head. I start to smile before I realize that he really isn't in the back seat, eager to fill us in on all the statistics and trivia involved in the matter. And that he might never be there again if we don't find him quickly. He's already living on borrowed time. I can't get the image of Hankel pointing a gun at Reid's head and pulling the trigger again and again out of my head.

I glance sidelong at Hotch riding shotgun, expecting that he will give me at least an obligatory reprimand, but he doesn't even acknowledge that I've spoken. His face is a stony mask and I can't help but wonder if he might be the one of us who takes the shot, himself. I know he thinks of Reid as a son, as does Gideon. I glance in the rearview mirror and note that while our senior profiler is watching me intently, he doesn't appear to disapprove of my inappropriate comment. He probably does, actually, but the look he's giving me says that he trusts me to make the right decision when the time comes. I can't meet his eyes and return my gaze to the road. He has more faith in my moral compass than I do.

I wonder what it is about Reid that makes us all so protective of him. So _drawn_ to him. Is it just that he's so young? He's not really that much younger than me. Yet there's something so vulnerable and...innocent about him. Garcia was right when she called him that; Hankel was going to have to dig deep to find the punishable sin he needs to justify a kill. I pray that just maybe that will keep the kid alive until we can get to him.

The drive to Marshall Parish seems like the longest damn twenty-five minutes I've ever experienced. What if we don't get there in time? What if we get there and Hankel's sick game of Russian Roulette has ended with my boy's brain splattered all over the wall?

The car swerves slightly as that thought enters my mind. I force myself to concentrate solely on the road.

And still no one speaks until we're approaching the destination.

"It's the next left, Sugarcakes," Garcia informs me over the radio, her voice tense; the moniker purely out of habit than actual flirtation. While the idea of being in the field doesn't appeal to her, she made it quite clear that there was no way she was staying behind at Hankel's while the rest of us went to bring our boy home. She and JJ are following the rest of us with Farraday and his crew.

"Almost there, baby," I answer back, though in my mind it isn't Garcia I am assuring. I kill the lights and the engine as I make the turn and coast in as quietly as possible. Much as I want to go in with guns blazing, giving Hankel any warning might get Reid killed.

The SUV hasn't even stopped before Hotch is out and headed toward the cabin with Gideon and Prentis on his heels. No way are they going in without me. I pull on my vest and draw my gun while on the move. JJ, Det. Farraday, and his crew fall into place bringing up the rear. Garcia has promised to stay back until Hankel is secured.

Hotch doesn't bother with the traditional 'on three', opting to skip over the count entirely and simply calling out, "Go!" as he kicks in the door. I can see the absolute fury in his eyes and for a split second I hope that Hankel is right there and will get one of Hotch's bullets right between the eyes. I have no doubt that Hotch will pull the trigger the moment Hankel is in his sights.

Which is why I push past him.

I love Reid and I can't promise that I won't take the shot, either, but Hotch is a good man, and he's got a family to support. I can't let him ruin his career.

I, on the other hand, can afford to start over.

"FBI!" I announce as I burst in and immediately begin scoping the room, my weapon at the ready. Aside from the now-empty chair and the belt and handcuffs that had imprisoned my friend, I see nothing. I'm fairly disappointed to announce, "Clear," and am even more so when Hotch echoes me from the other side of the cabin.

I lower my gun, though I'm still on alert. Where are they? I turn to take another look around the small cabin hoping that I've missed something. My gaze lingers on Reid's shoes and stop completely on the lone sock that has been abandoned. My brow furrows as I stare at it. What is he supposed to do with only one sock? I can't look away, so finally I stoop down and pick it up, clenching it in my fist for a few moments before I tuck it into my pocket for safe keeping. Reid will need it. I have to make sure he gets it.

I cough slightly as I become aware of the rancid odor permeating the room. Damn, Reid, what the hell did this guy subject you to? I feel my eyes beginning to water a little bit as I recognize the scents of blood and sweat underlying the pungent stench of something rotting. I cough again as I look around the filthy cabin for the source.

"What's that smell?" Prentiss asks the question we're all wondering. And then I spot it. Fish guts. Gross. I cough again and cover my nose.

"Let's spread out. They have to be on foot," Hotch barks. "Let's go!"

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I can't get away from the horrible little dungeon of a cabin fast enough. Besides, all I want to do now is find Reid, make sure he's safe, and kill the son of a bitch that hurt him.

Hankel's truck is still here, and it wouldn't make any sense for them to have walked the road, so I head instead further into the graveyard. I can hear others spreading out behind me, heading in various directions. I want so badly to yell out for Reid, but we can't afford to tip off Hankel too soon. We probably shouldn't even be using the flashlights, but time is of the essence.

The farther into the cemetery we venture, the more uneasy I feel. My stomach feels like it's risen to my throat and my heart…my heart keeps sinking. There's only one reason I can think of that Hankel would bring Reid out here. There'd be less distance for him to carry the…body. I feel bile trying to rise. He's not dead. He can't be. But he needs his shoes. I should have brought them for him.

Come on Reid, give us a sign, I silently plead as I pick up my pace a little bit.

I almost miss it. By rights I should have. The material is dark burgundy and it is lying in the shadow of a tombstone. But I'd know it anywhere. Reid was here. And for some unknown reason he took off his sweater vest. I don't know why that upsets me so, except that Reid is so private. He barely likes taking his jacket off in front of people, let alone his sweater. Or his dress shirt. I swallow a lump in my throat as I spot that on the ground a few feet away. Why the hell was Reid taking off his clothes? Was it by choice? Maybe he was trying to leave us a trail? Or was Hankel making him disrobe? My heart clenches as I imagine Reid's trembling fingers fumbling to unbutton that shirt as Hankel aims the gun at his head.

As I stoop to pick up the shirt I notice something...the dirt here has been disturbed recently. A fresh grave. Right where Reid's clothing has been left.

Oh God.

"Reid?" I call out, hoping that I'm wrong. He isn't dead. He can't be. I'd know it. "Reid can you hear me?"

"Did you find him?" Hotch asks as he runs toward me.

"I…" I shake my head, swearing I can feel the blood rushing from my face. "I think he's…" I can't even say the words. I don't have to, Hotch is staring at the mound of dirt, looking stricken. I spot a shovel lying just a few feet away. I grab it up and begin frantically working. My arms quickly grow tired, but I refuse to give up. If he's here…there's no time to waste. Hotch paces beside the grave, clearly wanting to help, but since he didn't have a shovel of his own, he'd only be in the way, slowing me down.

"Reid?!" I call out every couple minutes, hoping that he'll hear me. The others are all aware now of our plight, but they're continuing the search, in case I'm wrong. I hope to God I am. Thinking of Reid being trapped…alone…in the dark. He must be so scared. I wipe sweat from my brow and renew my efforts.

I'm nearing exhaustion by the time I finally hit something solid. Oh please, God, let him be okay. "Spence?" I call softly this time, more afraid than I can remember being my entire life. I clear the rest as quickly as I can and toss the shovel aside. I don't even have to ask, Hotch is already there, kneeling down to help me open the coffin. Together we lift the lid.

"Spence?" I whisper, my voice suddenly failing me as my sight falls upon Reid's pale figure. My eyes are drawn first to his bared and bruised foot. He needs his sock. For an insane moment I can't think about anything else. I start to reach into my pocket for it, but am distracted as I look up and notice the gouges in the coffin lid. Feeling suddenly panicked, I look to his hands. His long graceful fingers are bloody and torn. Oh, damn. He must have been _so _scared. Despite their horrendous state, I want to hold his hands, take that fear away. I would, except that I'm too scared to touch him. Afraid I'm going to hurt him even worse.

Except then I realize that I can't hurt him any worse. He's not moving. He's not _breathing_.

And suddenly I can't either. I swear it even feels like my own heart has stopped beating along with Reid's. Forgetting my own fear, I gather him into my arms and pull him from the grave, tears rolling down my cheeks unchecked. Reid's body is completely limp, his long arms and legs dangle lifelessly from my own. But he's still warm. Dear God, he's still warm. Hotch helps me lower him to the ground and I sense the others approaching. I tune out their gasps and mournful cries focusing only on the body in my arms. I absently brush the blood and sweat dampened hair away from his face, letting my fingers trail along his soft cheek. His skin is dewy and warm. He can't have been…gone long. Maybe there's a chance?

I tilt his head back and lower my lips to his. Except that I can't breathe. I can't...

"Spence…" I manage to whisper as I look helplessly at his pale face then at Hotch. _Do something! _I plead silently with him.

Hotch looks nearly as stricken as I feel, but he nods and takes my place, nudging me gently out of the way. I feel a hand on my shoulder and feel myself being guided away. Without even looking, I know that it's Gideon.

"Breathe," I hear Hotch encouraging Spence at the same time that Gideon tries to persuade me to do the same. I close my eyes, unable to bear watching anymore. Reid's gone. I can't believe he's gone. I'm going to hunt Hankel to the ends of the earth and rip him limb from limb, I swear to God.

"That's it, breathe…"

My eyes open as I hear those words. Could it be?

"I knew you'd understand," I hear a soft whisper and

I can breathe again.

A/N: Thanks for reading. Feedback is highly appreciated!! Constructive criticisms are welcomed, but please don't flame.


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